


Tinker Toddler Soldier Spy

by RedTeamShark



Series: Small Soldier [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Brock is not a good babysitter, Brock is not good with kids, Brock is probably trying his best?, Gen, Handler Rumlow, He's just trying not to end up dead, I'm irredeemable Crossbones trash, I'm not sorry, Kid Bucky, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Teen Bucky, Toddler Bucky, Unexplained Science/Magic, Winter Soldier Bucky, baby bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-16 22:46:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28838751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedTeamShark/pseuds/RedTeamShark
Summary: He’d ignored his Very Bad Day alarm and now? Now everything was fucked up.--When the Winter Soldier gets de-aged to an infant on what should be a standard mission, Brock Rumlow knows it's going to be his head on the chopping block. Unless he can become the world's best babysitter to a deadly assassin until the Soldier gets back to his proper age.Featuring a deeply unsettling child and Brock not knowing how to watch his language in front of a kid.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Brock Rumlow
Series: Small Soldier [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2149053
Comments: 5
Kudos: 21





	Tinker Toddler Soldier Spy

**Author's Note:**

> Title credit belongs 1000% to Mika. We came up with about four different options, but she ultimately made me choke laughing with this one, so it's all on her shoulders.
> 
> Apparently these days I exist to just turn my stupid shower thoughts ("hehe, Brock with a Soldier who is like 7 For Some Reason") into multi-thousand word stories. Enjoy.

Brock Rumlow considered himself to have a pretty good radar for when he was going to have a bad day, and an even better one for when he was going to have a Very Bad Day.

So waking up that morning with internal alarm bells ringing, he would have normally called out from the job and read about the carnage later.

But see, he also had this problem of complacency. Working with the Soldier had taught him that bad day radar meant nothing, shit was going to get done in a timely and correct manner. The Soldier didn’t fuck up and it was Brock’s personal pride that he _also_ didn’t fuck up when working with the Soldier. Hell, he made sure that _no one_ fucked up the Soldier’s missions.

And he’d ignored his Very Bad Day alarm and now? Now _everything_ was fucked up.

* * *

It had been so routine. A two-man retrieval, the Soldier taking point and Brock providing instruction. Break into the lab unseen, pick up the weird tech being developed that Hydra wanted, get back out. They’d tapped the security system and Brock was wiping footage as needed, alerting the Soldier (needlessly, for the most part) to patrols, tracking his progress through the lab. He watched on camera as the Soldier retrieved the item in question and turned to erase the footage when it happened.

“Obje--” The first word the Soldier had spoken all day cut off into static, at the same time that the live feed from the lab went to static.

Brock’s stomach dropped as he grabbed his gun and made his way out of the command module (which was just a shitty van with a pest control logo on the side) parked at the lab’s docking area.

Retracing the Soldier’s steps through the facility was easy, though with no one running intel for him, he was already lamenting the paperwork that would come with this clean up. At least his take-downs were silent, no gunshots to alarm anyone yet. Brock shoved his way into the room the Soldier had been in, cursing under his breath. Whatever they’d picked up had fucking activated, he surmised, and left the Soldier as a pile of tactical gear on the floor.

There was going to be so much fucking paperwork involved in this shit.

Brock moved forward to pick up the mess, warily looking out for the tech they were supposed to retrieve as well. He wasn’t going to _touch_ the fucking thing, but if he could get something out of this Very Bad Day, it would be a job completed.

And that was when the pile of clothing started to cry, and his day went from Very Bad to absolutely fucked.

* * *

He was a lot of things: a competent leader, a killer for hire, possibly a heartless son of a bitch, but he wasn’t an idiot. Brock lifted the crying infant from the pile of tactical gear, got a look at the metal arm welded onto the thing (deeply unsettling, even if it was scaled down to infant size), and came to the only logical conclusion.

That still made absolutely _zero_ fucking sense, but fuck him, there it was. The Soldier had somehow been de-aged by the piece of tech they were supposed to pick up.

“Fuck,” Brock said to no one, reaching down and rolling up the Soldier’s gear as best as he could one-handed, making sure to keep the strange cube that they’d been sent to retrieve away from his skin. “Did they tell you not to touch it?”

The infant kept crying.

There was no way to be stealthy with a crying baby in his arm, but he also didn’t exactly have a hand free for a gun. Brock groaned to himself, putting the pile of gear back down. He unzipped his coat and, after some maneuvering, managed to use his holsters as a sort of harness for the baby. He zipped his coat back up, picked up the dropped gear again, and let his gun lead him out.

Maybe he could convince someone else to do his paperwork for him.

By the time he got back to the van, the baby inside his coat had at least stopped crying. It was also a lot fucking bigger and heavier than it had been. Brock dropped the Soldier’s shit onto one of the benches in back, unzipping his coat and staring in confusion at what was strapped to his chest.

It was still the Soldier, but he was definitely bigger, probably close to a year old. Okay, so he’d been zapped down to infant but was growing. Brock decided that was a good sign.

He didn’t have a car seat in the command module, of course. He had zipties, but something about zip tying a toddler to the seat struck him as both wrong and very likely to go poorly if the thing kept growing. He groaned, rubbing his temples. Not like they could just wait around for the Soldier to be an adult again, who knew how long that would take.

Brock sat him on one of the benches in the back, buckling him in as tightly as possible and cursing under his breath when it was clear the baby would still be able to slip through. “Listen to me, Soldier,” he said with as much authority as his growing headache could muster. “Do. Not. Move.” He’d just have to drive slowly and hope for the best.

The safehouse for check-in was nearby, at least. Brock checked his watch as he drove, letting out a sigh of relief. They still had forty minutes before they were deemed late. Plenty of time for him to get there, even driving like a grandma on bingo night (or rather, driving like the _opposite_ of a grandma on bingo night. He had vague memories of white-knuckle car rides with his nona when she was late to bingo night and had to bring him home first).

He missed the simple days, when all he had to worry about was whether or not he’d hear the bullet that took him out. At least Hydra couldn’t send the Soldier to do him in when the thing was only about two feet tall and couldn’t even walk yet. Brock pulled the van up to the designated safehouse, looking around the dingy alleyway. Seemed empty.

He climbed out and moved to the back, opening the doors for the Soldier to get out. Even if he couldn’t undo the seatbelt, he could definitely just slip under it.

What greeted him was not a one-year-old, but a toddler, maybe two or three, still sitting strapped into the seat. “What the hell…” Brock muttered, grabbing the bundle that was the Soldier’s gear and the nightmare machine they’d stolen that caused all these problems. “Come on, get up, get out here,” he ordered, looking over his shoulder. “Before someone comes by and calls the cops on us.”

“You told me not to move, thir,” the Soldier spoke softly, his words slightly lisped, as he undid the seatbelt and exited the van. He stood next to Brock, seemingly unconcerned with just how suspicious it looked for a grown man to be taking a naked toddler out of a van in a filthy alley. Brock’s headache ticked up another notch and the vein in his neck started to pulse heavily along with his heartbeat.

“Well now I’m telling you to get inside. I have to make check-in, you’re going to… sit quietly once we’re inside.” He guided the Soldier to the door, fighting the urge to deliver a solid kick in the ass to get him moving. Shorter legs now. At least he could goddamn walk. 

It was the typical lay low place, mostly ransacked with the vague smell of urine clinging to the very walls. There was a single window that overlooked the alley, a ratty sofa in one corner and a counter on the opposite wall. A single door besides the main entrance led to a bathroom. 

The Soldier looked around the room, walking slowly and a touch unsteadily from one side to the other, poking his head into the bathroom. Finally, he turned back to Brock and nodded. “Area thecure, thir.” It was _deeply unsettling_ to hear that bland tone in the high voice of a child, to see that blankness of inaction on such a young face.

Brock nodded to the couch. “Sit down and stay quiet. I’m going to call in… Actually, here.” He sighed, shrugging his jacket off, dropping his holsters and pulling his t-shirt over his head. Having the kid be naked was just getting to be too much for him. As the Soldier approached he held out his t-shirt, fighting in an eyeroll that definitely wasn’t affectionate as the little thing merely held his arms up. “Can’t even dress yourself?” he asked, slipping the shirt over the Soldier’s raised arms and head, sighing with relief as it fell past his knees.

“It ith not optimal for me to have that knowledge, thir.”

“Right. Couch. Sit. No more talking.”

A sharp nod before the Soldier walked to the couch. Brock headed to the counter, opening one of the cupboards above it and retrieving the radio that the prep team had stashed there. The place might look like a homeless hovel (and smell like one), but it was more secure than Fort Knox. Brock leaned on the counter and watched the Soldier sitting on the couch, scooted far enough forward that he could swing his legs. Christ, he couldn’t even sit on a couch properly. 

It wasn’t adorable, but it was _something_.

Check-in had to come first, though. Everything else was secondary. “Hawk-One calling Nest.”

“ _Hawk-One, this is Nest, proceed._ ”

It occurred to Brock in that moment that he couldn’t call for extraction with the Soldier like this. He was not facing the firing squad because the greatest ghost Hydra had was currently unable to reach the floor from the couch. His vision pulsed black around the edges for a moment, before he depressed the mic and spoke. “Nest, I'm requesting extract delay.”

Silence met him, long enough that he almost felt the heat of the sniper’s laser targeting on his forehead. They already knew, of course they already knew.

“ _Repeat, Hawk-One?_ ”

“Hawk-One, requesting extract delay. There’s been a… an equipment malfunction.”

“ _Vital equipment?_ ”

“Affirmative, Nest.”

Another heart-stopping silence, and then, “ _Objective status, Hawk-One?_ ”

Some of the tension eased out of his neck. Some, but nowhere near all. “Objective complete. Requesting transfer to,” less of a shithole, “long stay location. Minimum…” Fuck, he had no idea. The Soldier had gone from an infant to a toddler in maybe an hour? “Minimum unknown, will follow-up when I can provide a timetable.”

“ _Copy that, Hawk-One. Updated coordinates will be transferred to you on secure channel six-one-seven-niner-seven. I’ll have the prep team leave you enough for three days to start. Objective retrieval scheduled for 0700 at drop zone Delta-five-two. Confirm?_ ”

“Confirm, secure channel six-one-seven-niner-seven, drop objective prior to 0700 tomorrow at Delta-five-two. And tell the prep team to leave me some money. I’m not eating ration bars for three days.”

“ _You know they don’t listen to me. Nest out._ ”

He racked the mic and put the radio back, heaving a sigh. Three days. He had three days to sort this shit out. At least they’d be in more comfortable quarters.

Brock headed to the sofa, taking a seat next to the Soldier and watching him. After a moment, knowing he was going to regret it, he spoke. “Status report?”

“Functionth within normal parameterth.”

“You realize that you’re like two, right?”

“My perthieved age ith not impacting my current mithon, thir.”

The lisp was going to be the death of him. He could see the Soldier’s face twisting with every misspoken word, like he knew it was wrong but couldn’t figure out how to correct it. Why was this so cute? He wasn’t a person that went for cute! And currently a toddler or not, the Soldier had more confirmed kills than Rumlow’s entire army unit and STRIKE team combined. “That’s because your current mission is sitting on the couch. Observations about your current, uh… malfunction?”

“Aging appearth to be thporadic. I have aged appocthimately two yearth in one hour.”

The headache was coming back with a vengeance. “I bought us three days to get you back to… how old even are you, normally?”

“Clathified.”

“Override. Authorization Rumlow, Brock, current primary handler.”

The Soldier’s brows furrowed, before he shook his head a little. “Clathified. Ack-theth granted by direct permithon of Aleckthander Pierthe.”

It took him a minute to puzzle all that into sensible English. Brock groaned. No way he was going to ask _Pierce_ how old the Soldier was supposed to be. “Fine. We’ll just wait until you start looking right. Are there any issues secondary to the age thing?”

Slowly, looking at him from the corner of his eye--no long hair to hide behind now--the Soldier nodded. “Requiring caloric intake, thir.”

Well, _that_ was a problem he could solve. Brock got up and crossed to where he’d dropped his bag, grabbing a ration bar out of it. They were basically packed nutrients, tasted like absolute garbage, but they were the easiest thing to carry on a mission that provided the sort of calories the Soldier needed to stay upright. “Here. Eat up.” Brock handed over one of the bars, realizing the problem about the same time as the Soldier did.

The bars weren’t just calorie-and-nutrient dense. They were plain old _dense_ , too. Usually the Soldier would gnaw on one for the better part of an hour. With nothing but baby teeth, he wasn’t going to be able to get through it. He looked from the bar to Brock, before holding it back out to him silently. It was hard to be sure, but there might have been a slight wobble to the Soldier's lower lip.

Brock pulled his knife out, taking the bar back and giving a silent apology to his titanium alloy blade. It wasn’t designed for cutting through ration bars, it was designed for cutting through human flesh. Still, it got the job done. He sawed the bar into uneven but roughly bite-sized chunks, passing it back over to the Soldier and letting him have at it.

Small bonus to the Soldier currently being a bite size chunk himself, he probably needed to eat less. Did he know that? “Stop after one quarter of that and wait thirty minutes. Your stomach might not have the same capacity right now.”

“Yeth, thir.”

With that, Brock went back to contemplating how painful his death was going to be if he didn’t get this fucking disaster back to normal pronto.

* * *

The secondary safehouse was not _much_ less of a shithole, but it was less of a shithole. There were actual rooms, for one thing, two bedrooms and a bathroom. The smell of urine was also less noticeable (he swore, there was some guy on the prep team that just _liked_ to take a piss in the corner of every safehouse they secured). The kitchen table had a hot plate, and next to it was a billfold with local currency. Rumlow flipped through it as the Soldier secured the area, shaking his head. Sure enough, tucked into the bills was a note calling him a bitch. He recognized that handwriting, and he’d show Smith who the real bitch was next time they were doing hand to hand training.

“Area thecure, thir.”

He didn’t jump, too used to the Soldier’s ability to just appear behind him like a ghost, but he did tense up again. It’d been over an hour since he’d requested the extraction delay, and the Soldier was no older.

“Good. Are you still hungry? Or tired?”

“Functionth within ack-theptable parameterth.”

That fucking lisp. “Keep in mind your physical body has different thresholds right now.” As they’d found out when the Soldier had eaten too much of the ration bar too fast and thrown up. Or when he’d suddenly had to pee _right now_ and they’d ended up pulling the van over in an alley and letting him piss out the door.

The Soldier frowned thoughtfully, before nodding. “Retht would be optimal at thith time.”

“I’m not stopping you. Go take a nap, I’m going to drop the objective off. Shouldn’t take me more than an hour.”

With a nod, the Soldier headed for one of the bedrooms. Brock watched him go, shaking his head and pulling up a map. Drop point Delta-five-two was nearby. He flipped the note from Smith over, writing **DO NOT TOUCH CONTENTS** in block capitals on the back of it. He emptied out the smaller of the two duffels of supplies he’d brought along, carefully dropping the strange little box that had caused all these problems into it and zipping it shut.

According to his map there was also a fast food place nearby. Brock took one more look around the room before shouldering the duffel, tucking the note and billfold into his pocket. He’d make the drop, grab some dinner, come back and try to puzzle out how to get the Soldier to grow the hell up. Three days should have been plenty of time at the rate the Soldier had been aging, but he’d definitely... Stopped.

* * *

Fast food and ration bars weren’t going to cut it for three days, but at two in the morning, it was good enough. Brock debated between the liquor store and ordering a coffee, then chose neither and hurried back to the safehouse.

He glanced into the Soldier’s room, spotted him curled up on the bed, metal thumb stuck into his mouth as he slept. He was still wearing Brock’s t-shirt, nearly swimming in the fabric, and didn’t look any older. Maybe he should have stopped at the liquor store.

Instead of taking the other bed, Brock set himself up on the couch, kept an eyeline to the Soldier’s room and ate his greasy dinner. He kicked his boots off, stretched out on the cushions and put a gun near at hand. Odds were against them getting ambushed, but he always slept easier with a weapon within reach. And with the Soldier currently going through the thumb-sucking stage of life, he didn’t have any real back-up available.

His eyes slipped closed somewhere around sunrise, breathing evening out as sleep finally overtook stress.

Brock sat bolt upright on the couch with his finger on the trigger some time later, stared back wild-eyed as the Soldier stood in front of him.

“You’re awake,” the Soldier said after a moment, moving to sit on the couch when Brock lowered his feet. “I’ve aged again. Approximate age is now five years.”

He wasn’t lisping anymore. As the haze of sleep left Brock’s mind, he looked the Soldier up and down more carefully. Probably about five, like he’d said. “You hungry? Need the bathroom?”

“Bodily functions have been addressed, sir.”

“Any issues with our security?”

“None.”

Brock laid back down as much as he could, nodding. “Go make me a coffee, then.”

The Soldier slid off the couch, bare feet silent as he crossed to the kitchen. After a minute, the smell of coffee didn’t begin to permeate the air, and Brock opened one eye. “ _Jesus_ ,” he gasped out, startling upright as the Soldier stood in front of him once again, staring. “What?”

“I am not currently tall enough to reach the coffee pot.”

“Son of a…” He heaved himself off the couch, shuffling into the kitchen and getting his own damn coffee together. He opened the fridge, frowning at the contents. “Fuckers didn’t leave us much food. Guess I’m going grocery shopping today.” Hopefully they’d left him some civilian clothes somewhere. At least there were eggs in there, he wouldn’t have to get a fast food breakfast. “Soldier, status assessment. What’s your current caloric intake need?”

The Soldier climbed up the chair to sit at the table, fingers sketching across the surface as he calculated. Like the thumb-sucking and the leg-swinging, it was a surprisingly child-like gesture to accompany his otherwise definitely _not_ child-like attitude. “The average five-year-old requires twelve-to-fourteen hundred calories per day, dependant on activity level. Based on previous daily requirements, my intake need is closer to two thousand calories.”

“So average adult. Gotcha. I’ll get enough food to cook us both some meals and we’ll supplement you with the ration bars if we need to.” Brock met the Soldier’s gaze, sighing. “Yeah?”

“At this stage in life, most nutrient-dense brassicas taste too similar to common toxins to be palatable.”

“Are you telling me you don’t like broccoli because you’re five?”

“Yes, sir.”

The firing squad was starting to look better and better.

Still, a bullet to the head could come after breakfast. He fried himself up a couple of eggs, drank down a mug of coffee (it was awful, so he added good coffee to the mental grocery list), and checked his secure line. Package had been picked up with no further mishaps, good. Brock eyed the soldier over his second cup of coffee, frowning. “I can’t bring you to the store with me.”

“I’ll stay here and secure the building, sir. Perimeter checks every two hours.”

“No--no. You’re not going outside. And you’re not answering the radio if someone calls in for me. You can, uh…” Usually if they weren’t using the Soldier as security, he was given some sort of menial task, like inventorying supplies or cleaning weapons. While he was probably capable of it, the idea of leaving a five-year-old with a loaded pistol seemed… wrong. And, as he’d pointed out earlier, the Soldier was too short to perform a proper inventory. “Shit, I dunno. I’ll check if the van has anything to occupy you.”

First, though, he desperately needed a shower. Brock left the door to the small bathroom open, one eye on the Soldier as he sat on the couch. He’d grown overnight, but he wasn’t getting any bigger now… he hadn’t grown after eating, either, so it probably wasn’t an energy thing.

He cleaned up quickly, ducked into the room the Soldier hadn’t been sleeping in and sighed in relief to find some civilian clothes there. Once he was dressed, Brock tucked his handgun into the back of his pants, looking over his shoulder towards the living room.

The Soldier was gone.

“Fucking--hey! Soldier, I said not to leave!”

“You said not to go outside, sir.”

He almost jumped out of his skin, spinning around for the source of the voice. Brock stepped out of the bedroom, looking over to the other bedroom door. There the Soldier was, lying on the bed and flipping through… was that a _comic book_? “Where did you get that?”

“It was provided in the supplies in this room.”

Light reading was an acceptable downtime activity for the Soldier, and if the comic book was in the room, it was probably pre-approved. Brock stepped over and picked it up anyways, rolling his eyes before handing it back. “Can you even read at this age?”

“Most five-year-olds are capable of sounding out short words associated with pictures.” The Soldier paused, frowning. “It makes comic books an ideal reading companion, as long as the violent nature is not too much for the child.” He turned the page. “There are other books available, if you’d prefer.”

“Nah, occupy yourself how you want. Just keep a low profile.” Brock pulled his boots on, lacing them up quickly. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Don’t forget a spare magazine of ammunition, sir.”

Yeah, five-year-old Winter Soldier was on the _deeply unsettling_ end of the spectrum.

* * *

“I’ve aged again.”

Brock set down the bags of groceries, turning and staring at the Soldier. “Sure have.” Seven or eight, maybe? The shirt that had started out below his knees was now almost halfway up his thighs. He heaved a sigh. “Any sign of a pattern?”

“None has been discerned. My caloric needs have not changed. I do require bathing.”

He wrinkled his nose, nodding towards the bathroom. “Well, don’t let me stop you.”

The Soldier only stared at him. “The... shower controls are too high for me still. I tried.”

His headache had almost disappeared at the grocery store. Getting groceries was a pain in the ass, especially in a place where he didn’t speak the language, but it was a _familiar_ pain in the ass. Coming back to this unknown pain in the ass had him longing for the liquor store. “Take a bath then, Soldier.”

“A bath. Explain.”

Liquor store. He wouldn’t even pay for it, he’d just rob the place. Something top shelf, he deserved it.

“Like a shower, but you sit down in the water. Have you seriously never taken a bath before? Don’t answer that,” he cut off when the Soldier opened his mouth. “Go to your room and get undressed, then go to the bathroom and wait for me. I’m going to put these groceries away, then I’ll be in to help you.”

Come to think of it, the Soldier was going to need clothes. He wasn’t growing fast enough to just hang around naked until he was normal again, but he was definitely going to outgrow Brock’s t-shirt sooner or later. He made a mental note to try to figure out how to buy clothes for a kid in the least creepy way possible, tucking groceries into cupboards and the fridge.

In the bathroom, Brock turned the taps on, plugging the tub’s drain and letting it fill up most of the way. He shut them off, turned to where the Soldier was watching him. “See? Easy. Get in.”

He looked worried, walking forward slowly, right hand raised to his mouth so he could chew on a ragged fingernail. “Is it cold?”

“What? No. It’s not cold.”

“What happens when I get in?”

With an effort that really deserved more recognition, Brock did not roll his eyes. He also didn’t just grab the kid and throw him into the water--but that was because he could hear the servos in the metal arm whirring, truth be told. “You sit in the water. Use a washcloth, soap yourself up. Wash your hair. It’s just like a shower, but you’re sitting down and the water isn’t flowing.”

“Showers are cold,” the Soldier countered immediately, eyes narrowing distrustfully.

“Oh my god.” He stood up, walked around behind the Soldier and shoved him forward. “Put your right hand in the water, Soldier.”

Reluctantly, the Soldier leaned forward and touched the surface of the water. His left hand braced on the lip of the bathtub, holding on tightly enough to make the stained porcelain groan. “It’s warm,” he declared after a moment, looking over his shoulder.

“Good, glad we could establish that. Now get in.”

Still seeming nervous but at least not outright resistant, the Soldier climbed over the edge of the tub and sat down in the water. Brock kept in his sigh of relief, turning to leave.

Something grasped his pant leg, almost took him to the ground with its force. He looked over his shoulder, ready to snap at the Soldier to let go, but those big eyes were staring up at him.

“Stay? Please, sir?”

“What the fuck. Let go.” Metal fingers eased their grip on him and Brock sat down, leaning his back against the tub. “What’s your problem with a bathtub, anyways?” The shower controls were definitely not ‘too high’ for the Soldier. They were down near the faucet, in easy reach.

The Soldier was quiet, only the splashing sounds as he wiped himself down with a washcloth. He was supposed to answer direct questions unless that was overridden. Brock wondered how badly this whole _13 Going on 30_ thing was fucking with the programming (and yes, he knew that reference was backwards and no, he'd never admit to having seen the movie). “It’s… it reminds me of… when I sleep,” the Soldier finally whispered. “Small and closed in and it’s cold there.”

“You remember that?”

“Sometimes. How do I rinse my hair without running water, sir?”

He wasn't supposed to remember that. Then again, telling the techs _why_ that memory had come up... He'd pass. “Oh, uh, shit. Here.” Brock hauled himself up, grabbed a cup from the edge of the sink. He knelt down next to the tub, filling it up from the (sort of grimy, god, baths were gross) water. “Tilt your head back, close your eyes.” At the panicked look on the Soldier’s face he continued, “I’m going to pour water over your head and I don’t want to get soap in your eyes.”

“Waterboarding.”

“No, idiot. Rinsing your hair. Look, I’ll put my hand like this,” he demonstrated on himself, holding the side of his hand up to his forehead, “so that the water doesn’t run down your face.”

“It still sounds like waterboarding.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t have a choice. I’m not letting you walk around with soap scum in your hair.” Brock guided the Soldier’s head back, pouring a few cups of water carefully over his hair until it seemed rinsed enough from the soap. “See? Not waterboarding.” He ruffled the Soldier's wet hair, standing up and wiping his hands on his pants, before grabbing a towel. “Come on, you’re clean enough. Too long in the bath and you’ll turn into a prune.”

The Soldier climbed out, let himself be wrapped in the towel and given a perfunctory pat-down. “I fail to see how too much time in a bath will transform me into a dried plum.”

“Don’t be a smartass.” He wrapped a second towel around the Soldier’s hair, careful not to cover his face. He’d rather not deal with a freak out. “You feel any older yet?”

“No, sir.”

“Damn. Well… we’ll have lunch and then I’m going to have to go out again. Get you some new clothes, you can’t just wear my t-shirt forever. Eventually it’s gonna be too short on you.” Brock patted his shoulder, guiding him towards the bedroom. “You like broccoli yet?”

The Soldier looked up at him, thoughtful and quiet, before shaking his head. “I do like peanut butter, though,” he offered, ducking into the bedroom quickly.

Peanut butter. Huh. He could work with that.

* * *

There was a serious consideration to be had about buying the Soldier clothes. For one thing, obviously the kid couldn’t come _with_ him to try things on. And he couldn’t tell the Soldier to sneak into the changing room and meet him there, because why would a grown ass man buying boy’s clothing need a changing room? It was suspicious enough that he was going to have to buy kid’s clothing--a shirt or pants, Brock could pass off as a gift for a nephew, but kid’s underwear was harder to be nonchalant about.

Or maybe he was overthinking the entire thing.

It’d be a lot easier if there was a big box store around, but according to his map searches and rough translations he was stuck going to boutiques.

On the list of things he hated that started with ‘B,’ ‘boutiques’ were up there next to ‘bad coffee’ and ‘bureaucracy.’ He didn’t want to spend half his money on clothes that the kid was going to outgrow in a matter of hours.

Also, fuck sizing. The kid was seven, he’d wear a size 7. Didn’t matter that the Soldier was currently scrawny and short. He’d grow. 

It was either that or try to have a stumbling conversation with the woman at the counter (who was giving him increasingly concerned and suspicious looks the longer he wandered around the store) about what size a seven-year-old might be. Hard pass.

Three hours and way too much money later, Brock came back to the safehouse. He put the clothes down on the table, tilting his head and listening. Silence, but the door to the Soldier’s room was closed. Maybe he was sleeping again.

“Hey,” Brock called regardless, walking over and shoving the door open. “I got--oh, jesus _christ_.”

The t-shirt was certainly no longer going to work. Neither were the clothes that he’d just gone out and bought. When the Soldier scrambled to his feet, Brock got a decent look at him. Still scrawny as a bean pole, but taller, maybe a whole foot of extra height since he’d left. His shoulders had broadened just slightly, starting to frame out the t-shirt instead of it hanging off him. And, of course, as a result of all of that, the shirt no longer hung down enough to offer any real modesty. “Motherfucker. You grew again.”

“Yes, sir.” The shy hesitation that had been there when he’d left was gone. There was something burning in those eyes, something like defiance.

Fucking puberty.

“Well, none of the shit I just bought you is going to fit, and none of the shit you were wearing when all this started is going to fit, so… I dunno, wrap yourself in a towel? I really need to find a liquor store…”

He wandered back to the couch, took a seat and buried his head in his hands with a groan. This was a nightmare. Plain and simple. 

After a minute, the Soldier sat down next to him, thankfully wrapped in a towel to cover his lower half. He crossed his arms, bottom lip jutting out slightly. “It’s not my fault.”

“Bullshit it’s not your fault. You’re the one that touched something you weren’t supposed to.”

“That wasn’t in the briefing!” Heat flashed in his eyes, metal arm whirring. “And growing up hurts! Every time I get bigger it makes everything ache and the arm keeps getting heavier and--” His voice cracked and his face flushed bright red, words cutting off.

If he wasn’t three quarters of the way to having a stroke, Brock might have laughed and made the situation worse. Instead he took a slow breath, forced himself to be an adult. He _was_ the adult, at the moment, he had to act like it. “I’m gonna pretend you didn’t just mouth off to your commander, because we’re both stressed out about this. We still have two days for you to get out of your rebellious phase and start behaving like you’re supposed to, though, so… How do we do it? _Something_ is triggering you growing up, obviously.”

“It’s getting faster,” the Soldier mumbled after a minute of quiet, looking down. “I went from newborn to two years old in about an hour, but it only took about three hours to go from seven to twelve years old.”

“And before that you were seven for… an hour and a half? Two hours? What’s the longest you’ve been one age?”

The Soldier looked thoughtful, before shrugging. “I think I was two the longest.”

“Alright, so what happened then versus just now?”

They were both quiet for a while, before the Soldier heaved a massive sigh. “I _don’t know_. Sir.”

“Watch the attitude.” 

If it was a waiting game, at least they were closing in on the halfway point. Brock wasn’t the _best_ at guessing ages, and who knew how the times in cryo were going to alter this, but he did know that the Soldier couldn’t have been older than thirty. Even under the mask of grim blankness he normally wore, there was something youthful about his features. Not innocent, and a look in his eyes when he had any sort of coherency of his situation spoke of far longer in service than anyone would think, but…

Maybe they were getting close.

One thing was for sure, the kid could reach the cupboards now. Brock nudged him after a moment. “Go make yourself a snack. You got bigger, that means your calorie need increased. Maybe you’re just cranky because you’re hungry.”

“I’m not a baby…” Still, he stood, shuffled into the kitchen area and started banging pots and plates around. “Are you hungry, sir?”

“Nah, I’m fine.”

He settled back on the couch, eyes on the Soldier as the kid cooked. There had to be a pattern to it, and the sooner he could figure it out, the sooner things could be back to normal. The rhythmic sound of the Soldier cooking himself some dinner had his eyelids heavy, sleep starting to overcome stress again. Just a short nap...

The weight of the Soldier next to him was a surprise, enough to wake him up completely again. Brock grumbled to himself, sitting up straight and nudging the Soldier over a little. No sleeping on the job. He pulled his pistol from the holster, got to work cleaning the gun. It was mindless activity, the sort of thing he'd usually make the Soldier do, but it didn't pay to be out of practice.

The Soldier’s head dropped heavily against his arm, almost knocking the gun out of his hand. “I’m bored.”

“Go read your comic book.”

“I already finished it. Twice.”

“Then go read a different book. Or do inventory. Or clean our other weapons. You know what activities are appropriate for down time.”

The sigh was _ridiculously_ dramatic and accompanied by the Soldier’s head dropping against his arm again. “That’s all _boring_.”

“You keep mouthing off I’m gonna have to kick your ass, you know that, right?”

He couldn’t see the smirk, but Brock could hear it. “You wouldn’t beat up a kid.”

“No?” He locked the magazine back into place, slowly setting the gun down beside him. After barely a second, he moved, fast enough to possibly catch the Soldier off guard. One arm wrapped around his neck and squeezed tight. “Don’t be too sure.”

“I--”

Brock put more pressure down on either side of his neck, only easing up when metal fingers threatened to tear his arm open.

Hacking and wheezing, the Soldier scooted away from him, glaring from the other end of the couch. “That wasn’t funny.”

“I wasn’t laughing. You might be a snot-nosed brat right now, but you’re still Hydra’s weapon. I’m still your commander.”

He looked away, teeth sinking into his lip for a minute. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why’d I agree to this? To being this…” His left arm bumped up and down in a shrug. “ _Thing_.”

“Dunno, your backstory is above my pay grade and probably, how did you say it? Clathified? It really doesn’t matter. You’re here, I’m here, and if you don’t grow the hell up in the next forty-eight hours, I’m probably gonna be dead. Don’t fix the attitude in the next forty-eight seconds, you’re gonna see just how little I care about hurting a kid.” Brock watched him after that little speech, ready to spring into action. The Soldier could get erratic sometimes, and the best way to handle that--besides liberal application of electrocution--was to get right in his face and force him to back down. Show no fear, hope he didn’t decide to see how many people the arm could eviscerate in under a minute.

It worked, like it always did. The glare left the Soldier’s face, his eyes dropping to the floor. He pulled his knees up, wrapped his arm around them and sighed. “Sorry, sir.”

“We’re both tense. Just don’t forget your place.” Brock stood up, re-holstered his gun and moved to the other side of the room. “You know, maybe this whole mess is a good thing.”

“How?”

“Well, since they had us go _get_ that freaky little box, they’re probably going to want to use it. I can warn them that you’re a complete brat when you’re twelve.” So usually once the Soldier backed down, it was best to give him some space. But Brock had never been stellar at doing what was best, and pushing buttons just seemed… more fun.

“You just said you’d be dead if they found out about this.”

“Maybe. Or maybe this is a test. See how I handle you at different ages. See if there’s a better option than however old you actually are. Hell, maybe we were supposed to go home with you in diapers, play happy family for a while.” Not that he believed any of _that_. It had been a mistake, and a bad one, but they were--fingers crossed--fixing it. “Maybe the old you was just that, old, and they’re thinking about trading you in for a newer model. All of the benefits of a shiny new toy, none of the downside of starting from scratch.” It wasn't entirely out of the realm of possibility. There was enough trace evidence that some people genuinely believed the Winter Soldier existed. And while he wasn't one to put stock in crackpot conspiracy theories, there _had_ been the job in Arizona... Why take out a raving lunatic claiming the Soldier was a clone of--

With his back turned, Brock didn’t know the Soldier had gotten up. He didn’t realize just _how_ pissed his words were making the kid, not until the couch slammed into the opposite wall hard enough to crack the plaster. Brock whipped around with one hand on his pistol, ready for a fight, and just had time to see tears streaking down the kid’s face before he disappeared into his room, slamming the door hard enough to put another crack in the plaster there.

“Guess I struck a nerve,” he said after a moment, listening to the sound of angry crying from the bedroom. Whistling to himself, he got back to making dinner.

* * *

He gave the Soldier half an hour, then went to the door and listened. The crying had stopped after about ten minutes, and the last twenty had been nearly silent except the occasional groan or whine. Brock had considered just kicking the door open, but if the kid was still in a pissy mood, he wasn’t going to cause another meltdown.

The quiet on the other side of the door was absolute. He grasped the handle and turned it, pushing the door open slowly. “Hey, kid--”

“I figured it out.” The Soldier’s voice had deepened, almost his normal tone. Brock pushed the door the rest of the way open, looking inside.

The kid had grown again, the t-shirt fitting him almost normally now. He’d pulled on his pants from the other day and while they were still a little long on him, with a belt they fit his hips. He stood up as Brock stepped into the room, eyes staying on the floor.

“I figured it out,” he repeated softly.

“Yeah?” Brock leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. “What’d you figure out?”

“Unobserved. That’s when I grow, if no one’s watching.”

“So what makes it speed up?”

The Soldier shrugged. “Time? I’m not sure, but--I’m older now. A year, maybe two.”

He could almost pass for the man that Brock had started this fucked up mission with. Almost. “Science division is gonna have a field day with their new toy.”

The Soldier shuddered, before his head dipped in a shallow nod. “I… I would like to finish this, sir. Please.”

Brock considered it, watching him closely. “Yeah, fine,” he decided after a moment, jerking his head towards the door. “But grab some dinner first.”

Shuffling along in his oversized pants, the Soldier slipped past him out of the bedroom. He took a seat at the table, his eyes on it as Brock served up two plates. It was quick and easy, but it was better than fast food.

“Sir…”

“What?”

The Soldier swallowed, putting his fork down and looking up hesitantly. “Why were you nicer to me when I was… smaller?”

Brock made a face. “I wasn’t nicer. You were just better behaved.”

“You didn’t just shove me into the bath or make me take a shower instead--”

“Shut up.” He took a bite, not meeting the Soldier’s eyes for a minute. “I hit my bullshit threshold when this all started. Just because I didn’t kick your ass when you were younger doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have.”

And that was true, if the Soldier had been a brat and mouthed off, Brock would have smacked him around. Two or five or seven, it didn’t really matter. He was a bad man who had done plenty of bad things. Hitting a kid wouldn’t have even raised his eyebrows.

He just… hadn’t had to. It wasn’t like he’d lose any sleep over putting the Soldier in a choke-hold. He’d done it before, he’d probably do it again. So this time the kid had been twelve. No big deal.

Besides, this wasn’t a normal kid. The furrowed scratches on his arm proved that. The Soldier could and would fight back. There were better ways of making him comply than liberal application of force.

“Sir?”

“What?” Brock snapped, pulled out of his own spiraling thoughts by the tentative word. 

The Soldier looked down again immediately, taking another quick bite of his dinner. “I just… wanted to say thank you. For being nice.”

“Shut up,” Brock repeated, softer, hating how… _affectionate_ the words sounded. “Just eat your supper and go back to growing up. We’ve still gotta think of a cover story for what happened.”

* * *

The next morning, the Soldier was back to normal--in more ways than one. He was the proper age again, though his hair remained short. He had reported to Brock at promptly 0600 (waking him up and nearly giving him a heart attack again) that he had reached the appropriate age. Then he’d left on a patrol of the safehouse.

Brock groaned his way through a cup of coffee before getting the radio out, calling for pick-up in two hours time. He turned to the Soldier, crossing his arms.

“If anyone asks, you sustained an injury on this mission that necessitated cutting your hair short to field dress it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Nothing about touching the weird cube. You’ll get in as much trouble for that as I will.”

The Soldier nodded silently, eyes on his gun as he cleaned and reloaded it.

Brock thought about it for a moment, then sighed, dropping his arms. “You still want to know why I was nicer when you were smaller?”

“Is it mission relevant information, sir?”

“Not really.”

“Then my knowledge is not required.”

That settled it. Whatever glitch in the programming being turned into a kid had created, it’d been cleared up by the Soldier growing up again. Brock checked his own weapons, head jerking up suddenly. The fucking clothes.

“Soldier, you have a last clean up job before we meet the extraction team.” He nodded to the bags from the store, still on the table. “I want you to dispose of those items. No trace left behind.”

“Sir.” The Soldier stood up with a nod, grabbing the bags and disappearing out the door. A moment later, Brock spotted flames near the back windows. Good enough.

* * *

> **Field Report  
> ** **Equipment Damage  
> ** **Item WS03101917**
> 
> Item WS03101917 was damaged while on assignment **[REDACTED]**. To resume function, a change in layout was required. Authorized by Cmd. B. Rumlow, #8714190. Future maintenance may revert equipment to original specifications at discretion of **[REDACTED]**...

With a click of the mouse, he closed the report, leaving his computer monitor to only display the desktop. In the dimly lit office, the figure in the corner was just a shadow among shadows.

"An interesting take on things, to be certain…" The man mused to himself, eyes flashing over to his guest. "Your assessment of Commander Rumlow?"

It was almost imperceptible, but he saw the Soldier shift. Even more interesting. "He shows great emotional care for any age under approximately twelve years old. It may interfere with mission parameters to allow him to work with low ages, sir."

He nodded slowly, steepling his fingers together. The Soldier shifted again under his continued stare, jaw working as he swallowed. "Something more to report?"

"Commander Rumlow did not allow me to finish aging properly. I… am several decades younger than I should be, currently."

That much was obvious. The short hair hadn't been seen since the end of World War II. "Does this interfere with your ability to do your duty?"

A bare second of hesitation. "No, sir."

"Then don't concern yourself with it. You're dismissed now, Soldier."

The Soldier saluted quickly, turning on his heel.

He raised an eyebrow, calling out before the man could get to the door. "And Soldier?"

Footsteps froze immediately. "Yes, sir?"

"The next time I send you to test a handler, I don't expect you to go easy on him. Is that understood?"

The Soldier's shoulders fell, his head dipping in a nod. "Yes, sir, Secretary Pierce."

He disappeared like a shadow of the moon, and Pierce turned back to his monitor. The work of changing the world never truly ended.


End file.
